


What There Is To Find

by LuxObscura



Series: The Shapes Trust May Take [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hint of Molly/John, Hint of Molly/John/Sherlock, Hint of Molly/Other Male Canon Character, Mention of Greg/John/Molly, hint of John/Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxObscura/pseuds/LuxObscura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a plan and puts it into motion.  Fortunately for him, Molly is getting better about taking control.  That's for the best where Sherlock and dating are concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What There Is To Find

Sherlock reclines against the headboard of his bed, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, hands steepled and propping up his chin.  His eyes are open but they aren’t taking in the walls of his room; rather, they are glazed over and far away, flicking back and forth as he moves things around deep inside his mind palace.  This isn’t his typical frenetic search for information but rather a cataloguing and reorganization of the facts that are already housed within.  _Stupid_ , he thinks as he re-files months of offhand comments and reframes and hangs a series of sidelong glances in a new configuration.  _I saw but I did not observe.  I was given more than enough data but I hesitated — why did I hesitate?_ Inside his mind palace his hands move as rapidly as his thoughts until a new picture begins to emerge, much less innocent and innocuous than the one that had previously hung there.

“ _Oh_.”  Sherlock’s lips form the shape and the sound together, the most noticeable movement his body has made in hours.

Upstairs, there are people stirring.

 

*****

 

Molly is not, as a rule, a morning person.  It’s been months since her last steady boyfriend, months without the sensation of another body beside hers as she drifts up out of sleep.  _This is nice_ , she thinks.  She buries her face in the warm chest in front of her as her brain wakes.  She stretches her legs against an unfamiliar duvet and that’s the first clue — not the high thread count, but the fact that there seem to be too many legs for just two people.  Molly stretches her toes and tries to count without disturbing anyone and yes, there are definitely six feet, two of which are hers which is as it should be.  Her brain helpfully offers up the image of Greg, sweaty and wrecked and unleashing a torrent of filthy words as he drove himself into Molly — no, not drove.  Was driven.  By John Watson, small, compact and relentlessly fucking Greg from behind.  _Oh. **Oh.**   That’s a picture.  _

Molly says, “Mmmm,” against Greg’s chest.  Greg’s arms tighten around her reflexively; John seems to be lazily petting her hip.

“Any chance of a bloke getting up to use the loo?”  Pressed close to Greg’s chest Molly feels more than hears this sentence.

“Possibly.”  John’s voice is rough with sleep and the sound of it gives Molly a little thrill.  “If you think you can walk after last night.”

“Hnf.  Molly.  Carry me to the loo.”

Molly rolls onto her back and stretches languorously.  “No.  I’d probably just drop you on your head.  Ask the soldier.  I’m sure he has experience at that sort of thing.”

“Invalid.  Couldn’t possibly.”  John delivers what Molly assumes is a poke in the ribs to Greg, because Greg jerks and accidentally kicks Molly in the shin.  Molly retaliates by pinching Greg’s arm and before she really knows what’s happening she and Greg are naked on the floor, breathless with laughter, while John sits smugly on the bed wrapped in the blanket. 

“He,” Molly points at John, “Is a bloody menace.”

“Don’t I know it.  But the things he does with his tongue should be illegal, so I keep him around and try to learn to dodge,” Greg winks at Molly and gathers her up inside the warm confines of his arms and legs, pressing her back to his chest so he can lean over and mouth lazily at her neck and shoulders. 

“Oy!”  A pillow sails off the bed and hits Molly square in the face. 

“Hey!”  She makes a weak attempt to launch the pillow back at John but is too distracted by Greg’s tongue and teeth working their way to the sensitive spot under her ear. 

“Well if Greg’s not using the loo, I am!”  John darts out of bed and across the hall, still clad only in his vest from the night before.

“This is.  Hn.  Not.  Oh!  As awkward as I’d feared.  Mmm.” 

Molly can feel Greg’s lips shaping a smile against her skin.  “That’s because we’re all friends and thanks to Sherlock we’ve all been exposed to much more publicly embarrassing situations than a little private sex between friends.”

Greg’s hand is just starting to drift down Molly’s stomach when the bedroom door slams and they both look up to see John leaning against it looking a mix of despondent and distraught.

“John?” Greg asks tentatively, wondering if John’s just had a moral crisis while in the loo.

“I smell coffee,” John says, hanging his head low.

“Er?” offers Molly, feeling lost.

“If we’re up here, who’s in the kitchen _making_ the coffee?”

“Mrs. Hudson?” ventures Greg.

“Won’t use our coffee pot after the incident with the horse blood,” finishes John.

“Oh bloody hell.”  Molly lowers her head into her hands.  “Do you think I could just jump out your window John?”  The prospect of two broken legs is nothing to the embarrassment of having to face Sherlock after this.

“He’d know.  He knows already.  That’s probably why he’s making coffee — to try and entice us down and deduce everything.”

“What do we do?”  Greg defers to John in all matters Sherlock.  It’s a well-known truth that John is the only one who even comes close to being able to manage Sherlock, insomuch as Sherlock is capable of being ‘managed’.

“We wash up, put on our clothes and go downstairs.  I suggest skipping the coffee though.  I’m not entirely sure the coffee pot wasn’t a biohazard the last time I saw it.”

 

*****

 

In a show of solidarity they all troop downstairs together.  Sherlock is resting in repose on the couch, fingers steepled, eyes distant.  A fresh pot of coffee steams on the counter.  Molly eyes it hungrily but remembers John’s warning and resists the temptation.  Instead, she reaches for her coat meaning to make a hasty retreat while Sherlock seems lost in his own world.

“Molly.”  Sherlock’s voice freezes her with her hand outstretched.  “Meet me for dinner tomorrow night.  Angelo’s.  Eight o’clock.  I trust you’re amenable.”

Molly can feel her throat closing and her tongue working uselessly in her mouth and _Dammit, of all the times to stand around looking like a caught fish!_   She catches John’s eyes and manages to mouth the words ‘ _Help me._ ’

“Sherlock—“ John takes a step in Sherlock’s direction but Sherlock waves him off.

“I trust that your activities last night, while enthusiastic, did not rob Miss Hooper of her voice.  Let her decide for herself whether or not to accept my invitation.”

Molly finally manages to loosen her throat and tame her tongue.  “Fine.”  The word comes out as a squeak and Molly swallows and tries again.  “That would be fine.  Lovely.  Yes.”

“Excellent.  Please feel free to have a cup of coffee before you all flee.  I did wash the pot first.  It’s perfectly safe.”  Sherlock demonstrates by plucking a mug from the floor and taking a sip. 

Molly looks to Greg, who looks gobsmacked and John who just shrugs.  Well.  When in Rome.  Or something.  “That’s lovely.  I’d love some.”  John obliges by pouring three cups, which they sip while sitting in awkward silence around the kitchen table.  Sherlock doesn’t move from the couch.  Greg and Molly finish their coffee and nod their goodbyes.  John puts the three empty mugs in the sink in silence.

Finally, he goes into the lounge and looms over Sherlock.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing but mind yourself, Sherlock.  Mind yourself _very_ closely.”

“Don’t I always?”  Sherlock is still staring straight ahead, not meeting John’s gaze.

“No.  Hardly ever, in fact.” 

Sherlock doesn’t respond and after a few moments of fruitless staring John goes back upstairs to shower properly and wash his duvet.

 

*****

 

Outside 221B, Greg waves down a cab and holds the door for Molly.  “Split it with you?”

“Yeah, all right.”  Molly ducks inside and Greg follows, pulling the door closed.

After a few minutes of silence that consist of Greg looking at his hands and Molly looking out the window, Greg clears his throat.  “You don’t have to.  You know.  Just because it’s Sherlock.  He can be such an arse.  And you.  You’re not.  You’re too.”  Greg takes a deep breath and looks up at Molly.  “You’re too good for him,” he says in a rush and then looks back down quickly.

Molly blushes.  It’s like last night in the pub all over again.  John and Greg had made her feel like… like what she wanted _mattered._ Last night was the first time she felt like she was a part of sex, not just a necessary prop.  And now Sherlock.  Stupidly gorgeous Sherlock, stretched out on the couch and just angling to prove _something_ ; he had to go and make her question herself again.

“It’s sweet of you to say, Greg.  And… and you know, before last night I wouldn’t have thought so, but I probably am.  So thanks.  Thanks for that.  You and John both.  I didn’t get to thank you properly.”  Molly reaches across and lays one of her hands across Greg’s.  “The thing is.  The thing I’m slowly working out.  It’s.  Well.  I do want to.  With Sherlock.  And before last night I would have said yes to dinner and then fled before coffee.  Thinking… thinking I wasn’t good enough.  Only now.  Oh bloody _hell_ why is this so hard?”  Molly puts her face in her free hand and Greg scoots closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Molly.  Last night you saw me about as stupid with sex as I’ve ever been.  You don’t have to justify one single thing to me.  If you want to go to dinner with Sherlock — whatever that entails — then do it.  You don’t have to explain it to anyone.”

“I’m trying to thank you!”  Molly swats at him halfheartedly but leans into his warmth all the same.  “I’m trying to tell you that without you and John taking the time to give me the best seeing-to I’ve ever had in my life I would have run away in terror this morning, thinking a night with Sherlock would just end in disaster.  Now I think… I might just be able to get the better of him.”  Molly’s blush feels like it’s about to go supernova, but there’s the truth of it, right there.  “Now would you please kiss me before I say anything else mortifying and get us kicked out of this cab?”

Greg does, and is pleased with the doing of it. 

 

*****

 

Molly splurges on another cab back across town the following evening.  She doesn’t feel like braving the elements in her high heels and a dress, even with a coat and scarf.  The weather has been raw and unforgiving.  The wind scrapes and reddens her flesh until it aches, just on the short walk from her doorstep to the kerb, ruffling her inexpert updo.  She slips into the warmth of the taxi and though her skin eventually warms she still feels cold and abraded on the inside.  Sherlock hasn’t even seen her yet but she feels like someone has cracked open her chest and pinned her skin aside leaving her insides on display: pink, shining, trembling, lewdly exposed and incredibly vulnerable.  Yesterday she told Greg she would get the better of Sherlock.  The thought seems naive now, and as the cab draws closer to Angelo’s Molly feels a tugging in her gut that she equates to a moth being drawn inexorably to a flame.  “Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” Molly recites into empty air. 

She fidgets in the seat.  Pulls out a mirror, checks her lipstick, refreshes it, returns the compact to her handbag.  She forces herself to sit back against the seat, closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths.  One of her hands comes to rest on her knee and the warmth of her own palm surprises her.  The memory of Greg’s hand on her thigh, of John’s lips there later, cause her to slowly slide her own hand up, pushing her skirt out of the way, stopping just before revealing a flash of black satin.  Her mind helpfully replays the events of last night, touching just for the sake of being touched, all the attention on her, asking for what she wanted — no, _needed_ — and getting all that and more. 

The fluttering sensation in her stomach subsides but the warmth remains.  She still feels hopelessly exposed, but she tries to reorient herself.  _I am open and on display but I still contain mysteries.  Sherlock can’t resist looking because there’s something he wants to see._   The thought isn’t entirely foreign.  Sherlock scrutinizes corpses until they give up their secrets.  A little thrill shoots down Molly’s spine at the thought of having all that attention suddenly turned on her.  And if that turns out to be too much… well, Molly’s certain she can tell Sherlock when she’s had enough.  If it isn’t too late John and Greg might even meet her at the pub for a full date post-mortem.  And if they meet her at the pub—

“Miss?  Your stop?”  Molly startles and jerks her hand away from where it had begun creeping higher than was strictly permitted by public decency.  The cab is stopped outside Angelo’s and the cabbie is looking at her expectantly. 

“Sorry, sorry.  Dozed off.”  The ease with which the lie comes is startling but satisfying.  Molly finds she doesn’t even care if the cabbie believes her.

She stands on the pavement as the cab pulls away, looking at the homely facade of Angelo’s.  _Deep breath.  Skirt straight.  Hair tamed.  Face relaxed.  Skip the forced smile._ Fortified, she steps inside.

Sherlock is already seated at a window table, fiddling with his phone.  There’s a bottle of red wine breathing on the table and two glasses, upright but empty.  Molly worries that he’s going to try to take her coat, pull out her chair for her, do any number of things that might be considered polite but which would be decidedly Not-Sherlock.

“You needn’t worry.  I’m aware you’re perfectly capable of settling yourself.”  Sherlock doesn’t look up from his phone when he speaks.  He doesn’t look up as Molly removes her coat or slides herself in her chair, either — just continues staring at his phone, occasionally giving the screen a flick with his thumb.  Molly gets the sense that he’s waiting for her to say or do something but decides to wait, mostly because she has nothing to say that isn’t awkward (and oh, she knows how that goes with Sherlock), but also because she wants to see what Sherlock will do.  She knows he’s perfectly capable of waiting her out but this doesn’t feel like a waiting game.  She lets the silence hang between them, feeling out exactly what sort of silence this is.

Finally, Sherlock makes a pleased huffing noise and slides his phone into his jacket pocket.  “Wine?”  He lifts the bottle in offering.

“Please, yes.”

Sherlock pours two glasses, and raises one in toast.  “To the company of a beautiful woman.”

Molly fights the impulse to look around, to make a joke out of Sherlock’s comment.  Instead she leans forward on her elbows, glass sitting ignored.  “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?  Because the berk that made me get him coffee and hand over body parts would never, not in a million years… he wouldn’t—“  Molly waves a hand, encompassing Sherlock, the wine, the restaurant, the words hanging in the air between them.  “This.”

Sherlock sets his glass down and leans back in the booth, considering.  And, ah yes, _there_ is the stare Molly had been expecting.  It feels like he’s cutting into her _heart_ and _Why, you stupid girl, why couldn’t you just have taken him at face value and had a nice dinner and instead now he’s looking at you like he wants to take you **apart** you empty-headed—_

“Interesting.”  Sherlock rolls the word around in his mouth, much like the fine wine he’s now ignoring. 

Something hot and white flares inside Molly’s stomach and for once it has nothing to do with arousal or embarrassment.  “Sherlock Holmes, you are— the worst—  _I am not an experiment_ ,” she hisses, low and sharp.  “If you want to sham someone go on the pull, but I _see_ you Sherlock, and I see _through_ you and I won’t— I _can’t_ —“  Molly moves to push her chair away from the table, fighting the urge to dash a glass of expensive red wine on Sherlock’s expensive white shirt when a cool, steady hand grips her wrist.

“Wait.  Please.  I am… sorry.”  Sherlock’s mouth contorts around that last word as though it has an unfamiliar shape that doesn’t quite fit between his teeth or through his lips.  Molly stills, her anger simmering but no longer threatening to ignite.

“Wait for what?  For you to try a different tack?  I don’t think so.”  But Molly stays poised in her chair. 

“No.  For dinner.  As I promised.  Nothing else, no other motive.”  Sherlock releases her wrist and instead wraps his long, elegant fingers around his wine glass, lifting it in a half salute. 

Molly follows, mirroring his movements.  He taps his glass lightly against hers, the high, clear chime dissolving some of the tension out of the air between them. 

“Cheers.”  The wine is rich and slightly sweet and oaky.  It slips down her throat like silk and pools warmly in her stomach.

“You do,” says Sherlock at length, wine glass dangling carelessly from his fingers.

“Do what?”  Molly isn’t sure what conversation they’re having or if it’s one she can even follow.

“See me.  The problem with that, of course,” Molly braces herself, “is that you are so busy seeing me you hardly see anyone else.”

“Meaning…?”  Molly hates this.  She can take a human body to pieces and put it all back together with no bits left over but she can’t follow Sherlock in conversation.  _It’s not that I’m stupid,_ she reminds herself.  _He’s just that smart_.  Not that it helps.  Not that Sherlock thinks of it that way.

“Meaning I’m surprised it took as long as it did for you and John and Lestrade to … come together.”  A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upwards before flattening itself back down into unreadability.

“A bit not good, Sherlock.  Isn’t that what John says?”

“Mmm.” 

 _Maybe that only works when John says it._ Molly’s mouth twists into a moue of distaste.  Sherlock’s eyes flick down, following the twist of her mouth and then travel up her face to meet her gaze.

“Gossip rags are predicated on the speculation of who is shagging who in which depraved manner.”

“Those magazines are rubbish.  Is that all you think of John and Greg and me?  That our lives are just stories fit for speculation and… and deduction for sport?  That’s poor, Sherlock.  That’s very poor.”

“Of _course_ that’s not what I think, how can you be so—“  Sherlock throws down another swallow of wine, stopping his mouth before something even worse slips out.

Molly’s blood is up and her face is hot, mostly from anger but also from wine.  But under the anger there’s something else stirring, something she can’t quite—  _Oh.  This is Sherlock trying to **understand** something.  This is Sherlock trying to understand people.  No.  Not people, **friends**._

“Sherlock.  What’s going on in that big old brain of yours?  You saw John, Greg and me together.  You deduced where we were headed before we even got there.  And then this morning you invited me to dinner with less-than-clear intentions, and I’m sure John told you to behave yourself,” Sherlock snorts but Molly is unmoved, “but you… you aren’t even sure what you wanted.  You only knew that dinner was some sort of first step in a ritual that you’ve studied but never engaged in.  Right or wrong?”  Now it’s Molly’s turn to sip her wine as she watches Sherlock.  There are minute muscle twitches at the corners of his mouth and eyes.  His tongue is tapping at the inside of his teeth but he isn’t trying to speak.  The silence stretches out and Molly’s stomach twists.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”  She hates the way her voice squeaks, she hates the way that her confidence retreats.  She hates herself for this whole stupid idea.  _Get the better of Sherlock Holmes.  Honestly Mol, you stupid, dimwitted—_

 _“_ Dinner,”  Sherlock repeats.  “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you.  Angelo’s best dishes aren’t on the menu.  I hope you don’t mind.”  The world zigs while Molly zags so she anchors herself with her free hand on the table.

“Lovely,” she manages. 

 

*****

 

The saltimbocca is divine and despite the quivering anxiety in her stomach Molly manages to clean her plate.  She notes Sherlock deftly maneuvering his linguini alla puttanesca around his plate while hardly a forkful makes it to his mouth.  Angelo brings them more wine but Molly shows restraint with her libations.  Sherlock however seems to be subsisting on Syrah. 

Molly sets her fork daintily on her plate and dabs at her mouth with a napkin.  “I’m the one that ought to be nervous you know.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Then why are you suddenly fueled entirely by the contents of Angelo’s wine cellar?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.  He does however push his wineglass away and take a generous draught from his ice water.  He chases that with another forkful of linguini, his clear gaze never leaving Molly’s face.  Then something sparks behind his eyes, blue and electric. 

“I trust dinner has been satisfactory?”

 _And oh, here we go_ , thinks Molly.  She isn’t sure quite _where_ they’re going, only that Sherlock is about to take the lead.  “It’s been lovely.”

“Lovely.  Hmph.  That word can be used to cover a multitude of sins.  My ability to hold polite dinner conversation is abysmal and while the food and the company have been adequate can we please agree now that I have discharged my obligation as far as ‘normal’ dates are concerned?”

This, this is the Sherlock that Molly knows — the one that barges into her lab and abuses corpses with riding crops and steals interesting looking bits of cadavers.  “Sherlock Holmes.  If you’re such a bloody great genius why on earth would you think that I would want anything _normal_ from you?”

“Your _normal_ pub night out with John and Lestrade was what finally opened your eyes and put you somewhere that you obviously wanted to be for a terribly long time.  Logically it follows that a normal date with me could precipitate—“

Molly leans forward across the table to cut Sherlock off.  “You could have had me across the desk in the morgue any time you wanted and you know it,” she whispers, low and heated.  And oh, it’s true but even with the wine and the lovely dinner it burns her up to say this.  Because Sherlock knows, of _course_ Sherlock knows this, but somehow he’s still got it in his head that Molly is fragile and achingly _normal_ and maybe she _is_ in some respects but nothing about Sherlock, nothing about her desire for him has ever even approached _normal_ and if Sherlock has missed that Molly has some choice words about his self-proclaimed _genius._  

Sherlock inhales sharply.  His nostrils flare and his gaze flicks down over Molly’s face and dip into her cleavage before wandering back to lock on her eyes.  “I believe it’s conventional to invite you back to mine for _coffee_.”  Molly can see the implications dripping off that final word and purses her lips. 

“What if I don’t want coffee?”

“I’m sure I can find something.”

“You’d better.”

 

*****

 

The walk back to Baker Street bears none of the awkward but companionable silence that had accompanied Molly, Greg and John just a day earlier.  Sherlock keeps striding ahead and then dropping back, remembering that he’s trying to keep pace with Molly.  Molly, for her part, feels her bravado slowly falling away and despite the witty banter that had gained her some headway over dinner she now feels almost fully back to square one in this power struggle. 

The third time she trips over nothing Sherlock halts, turns and catches Molly by the elbow, peering down at her through narrow eyes.  “Are you intoxicated?  No, of course you aren’t.  What then?  I thought you’d be eager to—“

“Stop _right_ there.”  Molly cuts him off before he can air their business to the bustling after-dinner streets of central London.  “It shouldn’t surprise you one bit to know that you can be _very_ intimidating and just because I can trade some … some …” Molly lowers her voice and leans up towards Sherlock, “ _sexy banter_ it doesn’t mean that I’m immune.”

“Immune to _what_ , exactly?”  Sherlock’s searching her face, watching the way Molly’s expression works around her features. 

“ _You_ ,” she hisses.  “With your hair and your cheekbones, always putting on airs.”

“I do _not_ ,” Sherlock sniffs, “put on _airs_.”

“Oh no, of course not.  You don’t even realise, do you?”  Molly wrenches her elbow out of Sherlock’s grip and starts off down the sidewalk again, no longer sure if she’s heading for Baker street but just needing to move, to not be scrutinized.

Sherlock catches her in two long strides.  “I’ve never had a need to ‘put on airs’ as you call it.  I am who and what I am and I’ve never — almost never — apologized for it.”

Molly wants to put her face in her hands but she’s tired of tripping on the uneven pavement so she keeps her gaze resolutely forward instead.  “You never did tell me,” she says instead.

“Tell you what?”

“What you _want_.”

“Obvious,” hisses Sherlock.  He catches Molly’s elbow again but instead of pulling her to a halt he threads his arm through hers, drawing her close into his steady warmth. 

“Not to me it isn’t.”  The edge in her voice has blunted somewhat and there’s a deeper intensity to her words.

“That’s because you’re an i—“  Sherlock stops himself short in some sort of verbal maneuver that sounds like it may have been physically painful. 

Molly looks up at him, brow furrowed.  “I’m what?”

“Nothing.  ‘A bit not good,’ as John would say.”  Sherlock steers her around the corner and on to Baker Street.  Molly’s options for disentangling herself from this oncoming train wreck are rapidly dwindling.  Sherlock guides her with one warm, firm hand at the small of her back.  The heat from his hand radiates up Molly’s spine, spreading a creeping flush up her neck.  _This is real.  I’m doing this._

Sherlock unlocks the door and Molly steps through into Baker Street, up the steps and into the sitting room.  She’s both relieved and disappointed to find John apparently not at home.

“Gone to his sister’s for the weekend.  Edinburgh,” Sherlock informs her as he hangs his scarf and coat on the coat rack and holds a hand out to Molly.  She shrugs out of her coat and hands it to Sherlock, then proceeds to stand awkwardly in the middle of the sitting room and oh, isn’t this just deja vu all over again?

Molly’s just engaging in a staring contest with the skull when two warm, solid and overly-large hands descend on her shoulders with a delicious weight. 

“I believe I promised you coffee?”  Sherlock’s voice is low and breathy in her ear and Molly’s stomach clenches and drops.

“You offered me coffee.  I didn’t say yes.”  Her head rolls to the right, baring a sweep of pale skin.  Sherlock’s lips hover over her skin.  “I could…” his breath is hot and wet on her skin, “find something better?”  He drops one soft, open-mouthed kiss at the junction of her neck and shoulder and oh, that’s torn it.

Molly tears herself out of Sherlock’s grip, away from his soft lips and allusions.  She spins around and grips him by the lapels of his bespoke jacket, giving him a little shake.  Her precarious updo chooses this moment to slip free and uncurl across her shoulders and down her back.  “Tell me what you _want_ , Sherlock Holmes.  I won’t be made sport of and I am not going to be an _experiment_ so if you want this, if you want _me_ , I need… I need to _know_ —“

Sherlock swoops in, his face inches from Molly’s, his breath warm on her lips, his eyes holding hers, completely occupying all the space Molly has to breathe, to stand, to _be_.  “I want to smell the soft place just behind your left ear.  I want to know what your teeth taste like.  I want to see how exactly you bite your lip when you come.  I want all that and more.  Molly, please, _make me look.”_

Molly’s fists twist in the fine wool of Sherlock’s jacket and she only has stretch upwards by millimeters to capture his mouth and— _Yes, it’s just as soft as it looks_.  She tastes his lips, upper and lower, slides her tongue into his mouth and tastes wine and spice.  Sherlock’s hands, hovering uncertainly in the air over Molly’s hips finally descend and give her a vicious squeeze. 

Sherlock pulls his head back just a little and breathes a hurried stream of words against her lips.  “I always suspected but I didn’t want to theorize ahead of the data.  Stupid of course but people, _women_ , not really my area.  When I heard you, when I saw you with John and Lestrade, it was as if all the pieces reorganized themselves into something else entirely, a completely new picture, all sorts of new data to be collected, new things to experience and I had to find a way, Molly.  I _had_ to.  I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer me to be something other than what I am but you’ve clearly shown me tonight that you are thoroughly against any kind of farcical roleplay and indeed you prefer—“

Molly stoppers his mouth with a kiss, her wet, hot tongue sliding against his lips and soothing his mouth into stillness. 

“I _prefer_ less talking and more touching.”

In response, Sherlock’s hands slide down off her hips and cradle her arse, kneading it through the slippery fabric of her dress before pulling the skirt up and over her hips.  His knees bend a little and then hitches her up off the ground.  She wraps her legs around him and locks them against the small of his back.  Her high heels clatter to the floor.  Molly locks her arms tightly behind his neck and resumes kissing Sherlock thoroughly.  He propels them both down the hallway, shoulder or hip occasionally caroming off a wall or door frame as he is distracted by Molly’s application of teeth and tongue to the environs of his own mouth.  Finally his legs bump up against the bed and he deposits her on top of it on her back, arching over her and letting his now-unoccupied hands skim over her sides, her stomach, her breasts, anywhere he can reach.

The kissing is good — Molly could lose herself in that plush mouth, trading breath and moisture and hums and sighs with Sherlock all night.  But now that she’s here, now that he’s brought her here and laid so much of himself open, Molly wants, _needs_ , more.  She pushes lightly at his chest and he pulls back just enough so she can speak.  “Off.  All of it.  Off.  I want to see—“  Before she finishes, Sherlock catches her mouth again but this time his hands are working at the buttons of his jacket and he discards it quickly.  Every shirt button that he works open bares another few inches of white skin, dusted here and there with patches of freckles.  A light patch of ginger hair trails down his sternum, stopping just shy of his xiphoid process.  Molly runs her fingers over it, just a teasing touch, and sees gooseflesh rise in her wake.  The last of the buttons are undone and Molly pulls his shirttails free of his trousers as Sherlock loosens the cuffs and finally — _Finally, didn’t that take an age?_ — she’s able to push Sherlock’s shirt down his shoulders.  It flutters to the floor and Molly is confronted with Sherlock, naked from the waist up.  In addition to the freckles and the hair his torso is marked here and there by pink, raised scars, some so small as so almost escape notices, others much larger and frankly scarier. 

“What—?” 

“Not now.  In time.  Not now.”  Sherlock pulls away long enough to divest himself of his shoes, socks and trousers.  He’s just hooked his thumbs in the elastic of his pants — black cotton boxer briefs, designer label, very tasteful, very Sherlock — when Molly speaks. 

“Stop.”  Sherlock does, looking wary.  A high flush has crept into his cheeks and Molly can see the outline of his cock, not yet fully hard, against the material of his pants.  “Stand up straight.”  Molly props herself up on her elbows, regarding Sherlock with a look that she hopes is coy but could well just be ridiculous but oh _hell_ , _who cares_ because when will she have this chance again?  Sherlock does as she asked, one eyebrow riding just a bit higher than the other.  “Hands behind your back.”  Sherlock does this as well, standing in an approximation of parade rest ( _I wonder what John looks like doing that,_ Molly’s mind supplies and she shushes it because this is about Sherlock right now, about _her_ and Sherlock). 

Molly slides off the bed, landing on her stocking-clad feet and approaches Sherlock.  Her eyes flick up and down, taking in the measure of the man.  Even standing in nothing but his pants, stripped of the armor of his bespoke suits the lines of his body are precise, proportional, elegantly sculpted.  Sherlock, Molly decides, does not need to put on airs because no pretense could be more elegant, more compelling than the reality of him.  She lays her hands on his chest, thumbs just brushing his nipples.  Sherlock’s nostrils flare and he inhales sharply but otherwise remains still.  Molly lets her hands slide down his torso, brushing over skin, scar, swells of muscle until her fingers come to rest hooked in the elastic of his pants.  She leans up and forward, stretching onto her toes and Sherlock hunches a bit at the shoulders, tilting his head down obligingly and balancing lightly against Molly.  She finds his lips again, warm and soft, and kisses him on his top lip, on the bottom, on each side of his mouth.  Her hands slide around to his arse and she can’t _not_ squeeze it, pulling him closer.  His cock is half hard, pressing against her stomach.  She twists a little, the smooth satin of her dress slipping against Sherlock’s cotton pants, giving him sensation but little friction.  Sherlock makes a little noise in the back of his throat, mostly air, and Molly smiles against his lips, pressing her hips in a little more. 

“You like it.”

“Obvious.”

Molly chastises him with a nip to his lower lip.  “What else do you like?”  She gives his arse another squeeze.

Sherlock covers her mouth with his, his tongue working between her lips, swiping them wetly apart, licking into her.  Molly’s knees feel a little weak.  She slips her hands under the fabric of his pants and digs her fingers into the flesh of his arse, which is, she decides, pleasantly squeezable.  His cock is growing harder, insinuating itself between them.  It’s hot even through two layers of fabric and Molly suddenly desperately needs to touch it.  With her hands already inside his pants it’s easy to slip them down and off his hips.  His erection slides free and Molly swears it feels even hotter.  She slips one hand between their bodies and wraps her fingers around Sherlock, giving him one slow, firm stroke up his length.  He’s still not fully hard but almost, almost.  Molly strokes him again and this time he moans into her mouth, pulls back, inhales, exhales, inhales again in rapid succession, his breath hot and moist on her lips.  Molly strokes him again, slowly from root to tip, stopping at the end to run her thumb in a circle around the head of his cock, now peeking out of his foreskin. 

“Molly—!”

“Sherlock.”   The word comes up from somewhere inside her that is still and warm and calm.  She gives him another leisurely stroke along his length, even pressure, nothing hurried or heated, just sensation.  His pupils dilate as she watches.  A flush is riding high on his cheeks.  She’s worked him up now, enough that she can feel the weight and heat of his cock fully in her hand.  Molly is pleased and surprised to realise that while she feels warm and pleasantly tingly all over she’s not yet so aroused she can’t keep her head.  She knows that will be changing soon but the feeling of being calm and in control while Sherlock is slowly losing focus is, well, it’s _powerful_.   The hand that’s not caressing his prick slides up the long plane of his torso so that her fingers can flick and twist one pink, pebbled nipple.  Sherlock doesn’t make a noise so much as air and sound get tangled in his throat and make a clumsy escape via his mouth.  Sherlock is… _is he trembling_?  He’s— no, not exactly; muscles tense, eyes shining, little crow’s feet in the fine skin next to his eyes.  He’s _waiting._

“Sherlock,” Molly says again.  His prick is blood-heated and heavy in her hand, his responses to her tweaks and caresses of his nipple are pulled tight, controlled but only just.  His skin is hot everywhere he’s pressed against her.  “All those things that you… that you want to find out about me—“  She withdraws her hands and takes a step back, the cold air rushing in to fill the space between them.  “Now is the time to start looking.”

The shift is immediate.  Like a hound let off a leash he’s on her suddenly, bearing her back toward the bed with his full weight, hands on her shoulders, her hips, her legs, biting at her ears, neck, shoulder, anything, everywhere, using his entire body to learn the shape and measure of hers.  Her stockings are an instant casualty, torn and discarded before her legs bump up against the bed.  It’s not that he’s more careful with her dress, but that his fingers are clever and happen to be on the zipper the instant he wants the garment off her body, so it is summarily removed and discarded.  Her bra and knickers follow in short order and then Sherlock has pressed her back-down on the bed and crawled on top of her, having discarded his own pants somewhere in the detonation of clothing.  His heat and weight are both reassuring and inflammatory.  Molly’s aware, distantly, that she’s writhing underneath Sherlock, pressing as much of her skin against him as she can, her hands wandering up and down his back, digging in occasionally when his kisses send a stab of arousal straight to her core. 

His lips finally part from hers, which feel chapped and swollen and delicious, and he begins kissing his way down her body, tasting different parts of her — jugular, collarbone, sternum, each nipple in turn.  Molly grabs his hair as her body twists underneath Sherlock’s, and Sherlock chuckles — a deep sound that vibrates against her skin.  Sherlock moves down across her ribs, her stomach, carefully skirts around the ginger hair between her legs in favor of kissing the inside of each thigh, the backs of her knees, even her toes.  Molly, for her part, allows Sherlock his explorations and doesn’t bother holding back on the little sighs and whimpers of contentment that he draws out of her.  _Let him learn_ , she thinks. 

When Sherlock has had his fill he edges his head up between her thighs and looks up at her, eyes half-lidded.  His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Molly nods, not wanting to bother with words.  She hasn’t even finished inclining her head when Sherlock lifts and spreads her thighs, resting them over his shoulders so her legs drape down his back.  She can feel two fingers spreading her open and then, _Oh._   His tongue is hot and wet and drags up the entire length of her, stopping at the apex to linger over her clit, circling, teasing, before drawing back and stabbing forward, parting her inner lips and wriggling inside of her.

“Oh!  God, yes!”  Molly’s always wondered about Sherlock’s experience with women (and, if she’s honest, men too) but the absolutely dirty things he’s doing inside her with his tongue and fingers put paid to any doubts or concerns.  She reaches down and tangles her fingers in his hair, using the leverage to grind down against fingers, lips, tongue, trying to pull Sherlock deeper.  Molly feels flushed, little prickles of heat stinging in her chest, the spots where her knees are hooked on Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sweat stands out on her forehead.  Sherlock is drawing her orgasm out of some deep part of her.  She feels her muscles tighten as it builds.  Her breath is coming in little gasps, interspersed with quick little moans.  Sherlock is relentless, working a third finger inside her, curling and stroking as he alternates between flicking her clit with his tongue and covering it with his lips and just _sucking_ and honestly how can she— like this— it’s— 

“Yes, oh— _yes!_ ”  Molly’s fingers lock tight in Sherlock’s hair as the first wave hits her, rolling up from inside her and out through her limbs.  Her hips twitch of their own accord and through it all Sherlock keeps his mouth gentle on her, easing her through her orgasm. 

When she finally gets her muscles back under her own control the only sound she can hear for a few moments is her heart thundering in her ears.  A moment later she realises she still has her fingers locked in Sherlock’s hair.  She gives a little squeak.

“Oh, God, sorry.”  She loosens her grip a little.  “Up.  Come up here, I want—“  Sherlock slides up the length of her body, miles of smooth, delicious skin gliding against hers.  As soon as his lips are within reach, Molly kisses him thoroughly. “Have you… been studying?”

“Research,” says Sherlock, his lips moving against hers. 

“You,” is all Molly can think to say.  She’s distracted by Sherlock’s prick pressing into her hip.  _Oh.  Oh!  I want— will he—_

“Molly.  Stop thinking so loudly.”

“Oh!”  Molly’s brain still feels syrupy, a little slow, but she knows she wants more.  She just can’t quite work out _how_ to get there and she still feels so languid.  She also feels Sherlock’s hand cupped over her mound, rubbing her gently.  Molly queries her own hand and finds the majority of her fine motor skills reporting back, so she reaches for Sherlock, wrapping her fingers around his prick and working on bringing him back to full hardness.  The strokes are rhythmic but without urgency, Molly pulling her hand up the length of Sherlock’s prick, finishing at the head with a little twist of her wrist before sliding back down, giving a little squeeze at the root.  Sherlock responds beautifully, rocking his hips into Molly’s strokes.  He moans and huffs against her shoulder, his cock hardening under her touch.  Molly feels the tipping point approaching, ready to slip over from languid touching into something more urgent.  Before they go over together she pushes Sherlock onto his back.  He grunts a little in surprise and looks up at her through his fringe.

“You’re stopping.  Why are you stopping?”

“No, I’m not.  I’m just.  Have you got—?”  Molly’s pushing up, sliding one of her legs over Sherlock’s.  He reaches into the drawer beside his bed and produces a small foil packet, which Molly takes and tears open, rolling it onto Sherlock’s length.  She slides up, dragging herself along Sherlock’s cock.  Everything is blood-hot, wet and slick.  Molly hitches her hips up, angles them and, _Oh, oh God, yes, yes that’s it, that’s Sherlock, slipping inside her, stretching, settling and—_

“Ohhhhhh.”  Molly’s word trails off into a sigh as she settles flush against Sherlock.  Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and his hands find purchase on Molly’s hips.  “Are you—  Can I—?” 

“God _yes_ ,” Sherlock moans and Molly begins to move, slowly at first, circling her hips and rubbing her clit on Sherlock’s pubic bone.  Friction, pressure, an itch finally scratched.  Molly tosses her head back and bites her lip.  This is…  This is… _God_ , she doesn’t even have words for it, but she doesn’t need words when Sherlock is hot and hard inside her.  He’s trying to use his hold on her hips to set a rhythm but Molly peels his fingers off her and pins his hands to the bed, hunching forward over Sherlock so she can see him, so she can _reach_ him.  The change in angle gives her even more contact and she picks up the pace, rocking her hips, the head of Sherlock’s prick just stretching her entrance before she draws him all the way back in. 

Sherlock writhes underneath her, twisting his shoulders, rolling his head against the pillow.  He’s so gorgeous like this, pinned under Molly’s weight and, if his huffs and moans are a good indication, taking his pleasure from Molly taking hers.  His lips are bitten and swollen and _ripe_ , so Molly indulges, leaning forward for a brief kiss.  Her breath is coming in sharp pants, sprinkled with moans and whimpers, which grow in intensity as she feels another orgasm building, low and intense.  The sensation isn’t as sharp, as needful as her first one under Sherlock’s studied hands and tongue.  This is a deeper sensation, starting where she and Sherlock are joined and radiating into her stomach, liquid and hot.  She wants to tell Sherlock that she’s going to come but she can’t get the words to work around her moans.  Sherlock knows, though.  _Of course he knows._ He releases his lower lip from where he’s been worrying it between his teeth and pants, “ _Me_ , Molly.  Look at _me._ ”  Oh, and Molly _does._   Sherlock is flushed, sweaty, swollen red lips, colour high on his cheeks, debauched, _gorgeous_. 

The sensation between Molly’s legs contracts inwards and then explodes outwards again.  Her hips stutter, lose their rhythm and then stop entirely as she spasms around Sherlock.  Molly’s eyes meet Sherlock’s and for a second, through her haze she sees … wonder?  Can that…?  And then it’s gone as Sherlock’s face contorts, the cords in his neck stand out and he comes with a shout.  Molly wants to watch, she _really_ wants to watch because when will she see this again, but she’s carried away on waves of sensation, her body contracting around Sherlock, Sherlock pulsing inside of her, nerves singing, blood pounding.

She slumps on top of him, slipping against skin slick with sweat.  She and Sherlock drink in vast gasps of moist, heated air, catching little bits of breath from the other’s lungs.  Molly nuzzles into the skin at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, smelling sweat and musk and honey.  Sherlock mouths at her jaw lazily, tasting Molly’s perspiration and underneath that her sweet skin.

“Oh,” says Molly at length.  Her senses are righting themselves.  “Oh,” she says again.  There’s a sensation building somewhere in her right leg.  “Oh.  Oh oh _oh,_ sorry, have to move,” she says hurriedly as the sensation resolves itself into a cramp.  She disentangles her fingers from Sherlock’s and rolls off of him, stretching her offending leg.  Sherlock hisses as his prick slides free of her.  The emptiness inside her is almost profound, the cold air of the room jarring.  She curls against Sherlock’s side, seeking some of his warmth.

“Hm,” is Sherlock’s only comment. 

Molly’s post-orgasmic lassitude evaporates in a shock of self-consciousness.

“Oh, oh God.  Should I?  Do you want me to—  I mean, I can—“  Molly rolls over and starts feeling off the edge of the bed for clothing — preferably hers but anything will do right now because she is _naked.  In bed.  With Sherlock Holmes._  

“Molly.”  Sherlock slithers one arm underneath her and wraps the other one overtop of her and pulls her back flush against his body.  “Don’t be tedious.”

“T-tedious?”  She stutters and she hates it and she almost bites through her tongue.  “But you said, you—“

“I didn’t _say_ , I vocalized.  There _is_ a difference, slight though it may be.”

“Oh.”  The syllable gets caught in her throat and she squeaks.  _Squeaks._   The indignity is almost more than she can bear.  She feels her skin heat again but this time arousal isn’t involved, even with Sherlock’s body pressed tightly to hers.

“Oh,” echoes Sherlock only his echo is deep and sonorous.  Molly envies him.  She _wants_ him, even though she’s just _had_ him.

“If I wanted to be alone I would have left to shower or I would have pointed you to my wardrobe wherein you could find — and still may, if you choose, though I would be immensely put out — a pair of track pants, a tee shirt and a hooded sweatshirt which would be much more comfortable to go home in than your evening wear.  The shoes can’t be helped, though it is late and quite dark so the number of people who would notice the incongruity would be minimal—“

Molly stops Sherlock’s mouth with a kiss.  His brain is coming on line again, and now that Molly’s reasonably certain she isn’t being discarded since Sherlock has gathered his data she’d rather have a few more moments of laziness before he really gets going.  And a nap.  A nap would be lovely.  She says as much when she finally releases Sherlock’s lips.  Sherlock feigns a moue of distaste.

“Sleeping, sleeping is _boring._ ” 

“Maybe for you, but I’m absolutely shagged out and you’re warm.  You could… you know, just lay here and let that big brain of yours spin while I have a quick kip.” 

Sherlock responds by kissing the top of Molly’s head and maneuvering them both around until they can slip between the sheets.  Molly drifts off, lulled by the sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat and the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

Sherlock, for his part, is already deep inside his mind palace, eagerly slotting new data into place and updating his files.  This has been good.  _Very_ good.  Better than he could have hoped, really.  Granted, the start had been a bit rough but he is aware of the gaps in his own knowledge and Molly’s eagerness helped smooth the way.  And oh, she _had_ been eager, hadn’t she?  Once you stripped away the meek and the mousy, Molly Hooper knew what she wanted and if you could distract her from her self-conscious internal monologue for five minutes she wasn’t afraid to reach out and take it.  It is a trait Sherlock can easily recognize and can certainly admire.

Sherlock nuzzles Molly’s hair and Molly makes a contented sound in her sleep.  Sherlock wonders if John and Lestrade would be amenable to comparing notes.  He’s vaguely aware that’s what blokes who are mates (as the vernacular goes) tend to do, but he’s unsure of the etiquette when the woman involved is a mutual friend.  He makes a note to research it.  Perhaps after a brief nap.  Molly may have had a point about “shagged out”.  _The idea does have some merit_ , he thinks as he closes his eyes.

 

*****

 

Molly wakes the next morning to an empty bed.  A few observations present themselves in short order.  One, she is deliciously sore.  Two, she was awakened by the click of the kettle.  Three, Sherlock’s second best dressing gown is draped over the foot of the bed.  Molly takes the hint and dons the dressing gown, skipping the idea of looking for her knickers.  She pads out to the kitchen and regrets that choice when she sees that John has joined Sherlock for a cup of tea.  But then John smiles, as warm and welcoming as ever and gestures to a third mug steaming away on the worktop.

“John, hello, I thought you were— that is, Sherlock said.  Well.  Uhm.  This is a bit awkward.” Molly ducks her head  and hopes her hair will hide the blush in her cheeks. 

“Harry and I had a bit of a row.  I was going to come back on the last train last night but Sherlock was clearly up to something.” John gives Sherlock a sidelong glance, which Sherlock ignores. “Stayed in a hotel last night and caught the first train back this morning instead.”  John’s eyes flick over Molly in Sherlock’s dressing gown.  “All right then?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Brilliant, thanks.”  Molly tries a small smile and finds it comes easily, even growing into a bigger one as John matches it with one of his own. 

Sherlock, clad in his blue dressing gown and a pair of pyjama pants, huffs with what Molly chooses to read as satisfaction.  Either that or something in the morning paper has pleased him immensely.  Unless it’s a “Triple Homicide, Police Baffled” sort of day Molly rather doubts the latter.

Molly sips her tea and finds it’s just as she likes it which causes her to wonder briefly which of them made it.  She’s mildly surprised and greatly pleased to find that adding John to her “morning after” does not induce awkwardness and indeed encourages a companionable air.  Sherlock rustles the pages of the paper, John makes small talk with Molly and all three of them sip their tea.

There’s a ping from Molly’s handbag, which is hanging with her coat and scarf in the lounge.

“Cor, what time is it, anyway?”  Molly sets down her mug and looks around for a clock.

“8:37 am,” answers Sherlock without looking up from the paper.

“I should probably be going, then.  You know, shopping to get and all that,” Molly stands and turns towards Sherlock’s room.

“Tedious,” opines Sherlock.

“Yes, the lives of us mere mortals often are.”  John smiles and winks at Molly.

“Everyone’s desires would be much better served if Molly stayed here today and you came to bed with us, John.” 

John chokes on his tea.  Molly’s hand flies to her mouth as her eyes widen.  Sherlock sighs.

“Or you could both have a moral crisis — though why you must I cannot and refuse to try to understand — and we can spend a month talking around our unspoken desires before we all get drunk one night and fall into bed.  I had hoped to avoid that but if you two insist we can do it your way.  The long, boring, useless way.”  Sherlock snaps the paper up to cover his expression and John gets to his feet. 

“Molly, could you use some help with your shopping?”  John is trying to glare at Sherlock and look placatingly at Molly at the same time, which has the comical effect of making him look as though he’s having a stroke.

Molly feels a rush of warmth in her chest that, yes, she should have guessed, shoots right down to her groin but she makes a good effort at looking mortified.  “Yes John, I think I would.  Sherlock, I’m taking those clothes from your wardrobe.  I hope you don’t want them back.”

 

*****

 

Molly doesn’t actually go shopping with John because the ridiculousness of doing so in track pants and high heels while toting a carrier bag with a little black dress is too much to make it worth doing even to spite Sherlock.  Instead, John sees her downstairs and hails her a cab.  On impulse, Molly leans up and kisses him on the lips before ducking into the taxi.  As the cab pulls away, Molly sees John’s face split into a grin before he turns and walks up Baker Street. 

As Molly settles into the seat she remembers her phone and pulls it out to check.  She has only one new text which isn’t really a surprise, given the awkward state of her social life. 

 _Oh, how odd._   The gentleman from IT is responding to her question about the lab computer.  _How did he get my cell number?  Usually they just e-mail my work account._   Molly opens the text anyway.

 

_Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?  ;-)  —Jim from IT_

**Author's Note:**

> This piece quickly grew beyond my expectations and, let's be honest, it mostly grew in the porn sections. I am once again grateful to all the denizens of Antidiogenes for cheerleading, handholding and generous, generous praise. You all kept me going when I was ready to pull my hair out and bin this whole endeavor. Also thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on Once And Then Again. You motivated me, inspired me and generally made me feel much more comfortable in my own ability and that is something with a price beyond rubies. Finally, most special thanks to my beta, HiddenLacuna, for helping me keep the narrative focused and all my words in the right order. Any errors that remain are mine alone and committed in the face of sound literary advice.
> 
> If you've caught any errant words, typos or other oddities please drop me a private message. I appreciate your laser eyes!


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